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Within this temple Christ again, unseen,

Those sacred words has said,
And his invisible hands to-day have been

Laid on a young man's head.

And evermore beside him on his way,

The unseen Christ shall move,
That he may lean upon his arm, and say,

"Dost thou, dear Lord, approve?"

Beside him at the marriage feast shall be,

To make the scene more fair; Beside him in the dark Gethsemane

Of pain and midnight prayer.

O holy trust! O endless sense of rest!

Like the beloved John,
To lay the head upon the Saviour's breast,

And thus to journey on!

MIDNIGHT AND MOONSHINE. A fine descriptive passage in a poem by William Motherwell.

Look! look! the land is sheathed in light,

And mark the winding stream,
How, creeping round yon distant height,

Its rippling waters gleam,
Its waters flash through leaf and flower—

O! merrily they go;
Like living things, their voices pour

Dim music as they flow.
Sinless and pure they seek the sea,
As souls pant for eternity;—
Heaven speed their bright course till they sleep
In the broad bosom of the deep.

High in mid air, on seraph wing,
The paley moon is journeying
In stillest path of stainless blue;
Keen, curious stars are peering through
Heaven's arch this hour; they doat on her
-With perfect love; nor can she stir

Within her vaulted halls a pace,
Ere rushing out, with joyous face,

These Godkins of the sky
Smile, as she glides in loveliness;

While every heart beats high With passion, and breaks forth to bless

Her loftier divinity.

It is a smile worth worlds to win—
So full of love, so void of sin,
The smile she sheds on these tall trees,
Stout children of past centuries.
Each little leaf, with feathery light,

Is margin'd marvellously;
Moveless all droop, in slumberous quiet;

How beautiful they be!
And blissful as soft infants lull'd

Upon a mother's knee.

And lo! even like a giant wight

Slumbering his battle toils away, The sleep-lock'd city, gleaming bright

With many a dazzling ray,
Lies stretched in vastness at my feet;
Voiceless the chamber and the street,

And echoless the hall;
Had Death uplift his bony hand
And smote all living on the land,

No deeper quiet could fall.

In this religious calm of night,
Behold, with finger tall and bright,
Each tapering spire points to the sky,
In a fond, holy ecstacy ;—
Strange monuments they be of mind,—
Of feelings dim and undefined,
Shaping themselves, yet not the less,
In forms of passing loveliness.

0 God! this is a holy hour:—
Thy breath is o'er the land;

1 feel it in each little flower

Around me where I stand,—

In all the moonshine scatter'd fair,
Above, below me, everywhere,—
In every dew-bead glistening sheen,
In every leaf and blade of green,—
And in this silence grand and deep,
Wherein thy blessed creatures sleep.
» * • * *

While lingering in this moonshine glade,
I dream of hopes that cannot fade;
And pour abroad those phantasies
That spring from holiest sympathies
With Nature's moods, in this glad hour
Of silence, moonshine, beauty, power,
When the busy stir of man is gone,
And the soul is left with God alone!

THIRTEEN AT TABLE.

A spirited translation from Beranger, the greatest lyric poet of France.

Thirteen at the table! Alas, for the error!

And the salt but this moment was spilt by my plate! Ah, number ill-boding! Ah, presage of terror!

Hark, death is at hand—'tis the moment of fate! But lo! 'tis a spirit, a goddess, a fairy,

And beauteous and young, and she smiles on our glee!
Nay, let us renew our gay songs and be merry;
For death wears no longer its terrors for me.

Though here like a guest to our board she advances,
And wears a gay festival garland like ours,

I only behold her—alone to my glances

Appears her bright wreath like a rainbow of flowers.

She holds a rent chain, and so sweetly reposing,
A small sleeping babe on her bosom I see.

Fill up to the brim the red cup of carousing;

For death wears no longer its terrors for me.

"And why," thus she speaks, "should my presence be dreaded,

Twin-sister of hope, and a daughter of heaven?
Oh, why by the slave should that power be upbraided,

By which the dull chains of his tyrant are riven?

Fallen angel, the wings which, in pilgrimage human,

The fates have withheld, I shall render to thee!"
Lets drink of the rapturous kisses of woman;
For death wears no longer its terrors for me.

"Again will I come," she pursues, "and with pleasure
Thy soul in all space shall at liberty stray,

Mid the swift orbs of fire, through the deserts of azure
That heaven scatters wide o'er Eternity's way.

But while 'tis detained in this yoke, go unfearing,
Enjoy all that still from remorse may be free,"

Let pleasure, in peace, make existence endearing,

For death wears no longer its terrors for me.

A hound bay'd without, and, unearthly and fleeting,

The fair apparition evanish'd away.
Ah, mortals! how vain is your thought of retreating

When the chill of the coffin arrests with dismay!
Let us gaily surrender our bark so unstable,

Borne on by the waves to its port o'er the sea,
If counted by heaven, let us still sit at table;
For death wears no longer its terrors for me.

AN OLD HAUNT.

Taken from Household Words, where it appeared anonymously. It is worth preserving in this collection.

The rippling water, with its drowsy tone,—
The tall elms, tow'ring in their stately pride,—

And—sorrow's type—the willow sad and lone,
Kissing in graceful woe the murmuring tide ;—

The gray church-tower,—and dimly seen beyond,
The faint hills gilded by the parting sun,—

All were the same, and seem'd with greeting fond
To welcome me as they of old had done.

And for a while I stood as in a trance,

On that loved spot, forgetting toil and pain ;—

Buoyant my limbs, and keen and bright my glance,
For that brief space I was a boy again!

Again with giddy mates I careless play'd,

Or plied the quiv'ring oar, on conquest bent;—

Again, beneath the tall elms silent shade,
I woo'd the fair, and won the sweet consent.

But brief, alas! the spell,—for suddenly

Peal'd from the tower the old familiar chimes,

And with their clear, heart-thrilling melody,
Awaked the spectral forms of darker times.

And I remember'd all that years had wrought—

How bow'd my care-worn frame, how diinm'd my eye,

How poor the gauds by youth so keenly sought,
How quench'd and dull youth's aspirations high!

And in half mournful, half upbraiding host,
Duties neglected—high resolves unkept—

And many a heart by death or falsehood lost,
In lightning current o'er my bosom swept.

Then bow'd the stubborn knees, as backward sped
The self-accusing thoughts in dread array,

And, slowly, from their long-congealed bed,
Forced the remorseful tears their silent way.

Bitter, yet healing drops! in mercy sent,
Like soft dews falling on a thirsty plain,—

And ere those chimes their last faint notes had spent,
Strengthen'd and calm'd, I stood erect again.

Strengthen'd, the tasks allotted to fulfil;—
Calm'd, the thick-coming sorrows to endure;

Fearful of naught but of my own frail will,—
In His Almighty strength and aid secure.

For a sweet voice had whisper'd hope to me,—
Had through my darkness shed a kindly ray;—

It said: "The past is fix'd immutably,
Yet is there comfort in the coming day!"

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